The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater [20]
I am caught off guard, so when Corr moves up and away, I do nothing. He is in a half-rear before I realize it, but then he brings both his hooves down in the exact same place they left, making a mighty wall of water spray my face. I stand there, salt in my mouth, and I see that his ears are pricked at me, neck arched.
For the first time in days, I laugh. In response to the sound, Corr shakes his head and neck like a dog shedding water. I back up a few steps in the water and he follows me, and then I come after him and kick a splash at his body. He winces, looking deeply wounded, and then paws to splash me in return. Back and forth we go — I never have my back to him — as he follows me and I him. He pretends to drink the water and tosses his head in mock disgust. I pretend to drink a handful and throw it at him.
Finally, I am out of breath and my feet are sore from the pebbles and the water is nearly too cold to bear. I go to Corr and he lowers his head, pressing his face against my chest; he is warm through my soaked shirt. I trace a letter on the skin behind his ears, to still him, and I rub my fingers through his mane, to still me.
Not too far away, I hear a distant splash. It could be a fish, although it would have to be sizable for me to hear it over the breakers. I look out over the sea as it turns to black.
I don’t think it is a fish, and neither does Corr, who is again looking out toward the horizon. Now he trembles, and when I back out of the surf, it takes a long minute to convince him to follow. He takes one slow step, then another, until the water is no longer touching him, and then he stops, rigid legged. He looks back to the sea, lifts his head, and curls back his lip.
I snap the lead sharply and press the iron into Corr’s chest, before he can call. While he’s in my hands he won’t sing their song.
As I walk back up the gradual slope to the boat slip, I see silhouettes at the top of the road to Skarmouth. They are standing at the ridge where it meets the sky, black against purple. Though they’re distant, one of them is the unmistakably graceless form of Mutt Malvern. Their posture is undeniably interested in my progress, so I’m wary as I make my way.
It doesn’t take me long to discover that Mutt Malvern has pissed in my boots.
They’re laughing now on the ridge. I won’t give Mutt the satisfaction of my disgust, so I tip the boots out — this beach is too good for his urine — and tie their laces together. I let them hang on either side of the saddle on Corr’s back and start up the slope. Though it’s nearly dark, there’s still a lot to get done; I have to be to Gratton’s before ten. The day stretches out in front of me, invisible in the darkness.
We climb inland.
My boots smell of piss.
CHAPTER TEN
PUCK
It’s been a long time since I’ve been in Skarmouth after dark, and it reminds me of the time that Dad cut his hair. For the first seven years of my life, Dad had dark curly hair that was like me — in that he told it first thing in the morning what he wanted it to do and then it went and did pretty much whatever it wanted to do. Anyway, when I was seven, Dad came back from the docks with his hair close shaven and when I saw him walk in the door and kiss my mother on the mouth, I started to cry because I thought he was a stranger.
And that’s what Skarmouth has done, after dark: It’s turned into an entirely different Skarmouth from the one I’ve known my whole life, and I don’t feel like letting it kiss me on the mouth anytime soon. Night has painted the entire town dark blue. All of the buildings press against each other and, clinging to the rocks, peer down into the endless black quay beneath them. Streetlights make brilliant halos; paper lights crawl along wires